


overcome by ordinary contentment

by dogeared



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, De-aging, Friendship, Gen, Magic, wee!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:35:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there are sandwiches and naps and an epic game of tag.</p>
            </blockquote>





	overcome by ordinary contentment

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime vaguely post-Season 2, with vague S2 finale spoilers.

"Oh, god. Really? _Really_?" There are some things in the universe that Stiles can readily admit to himself he just doesn't understand—paying actual money to watch people beat each other up in MMA fights on TV; his dad's tragic tie collection; Lydia Martin's everything; magic.

Because it seems pretty likely that magic is responsible for the fact that Stiles came home from school to find Derek Hale standing in his bedroom, only he's about three feet shorter than usual and looks like he's all of five, maybe six years old. The floor's a disaster area, which Stiles quickly figures out must be from Derek rooting around in the back of his closet for the long-outgrown clothes (still oversized on him), including Stiles's threadbare Superman t-shirt, that Stiles shoved there instead of getting rid of them like his dad told him to. Déjà vu all over again, sort of.

Derek's arms are crossed, and he has a furious scowl on his face—so pretty much the same as always, then—and he stomps his bare foot and says, "I want my pack."

His pack? Derek doesn't really _have_ much of a pack at the moment. Stiles flips through faces in his mind anyway—Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Peter—as he considers them based on their potential childcare qualifications. Scott, at least, is good with the animals at the clinic, but, werewolf or not, that's not really the same thing . . .

"My family," Derek clarifies, like he can tell what Stiles is thinking, and oh, god. It's going to break Stiles's heart right in half if he has to tell Derek that his whole family is—

"I know they're gone," Derek says quietly, looking at the floor. "I just miss them."

So Derek knows who he is, still, maybe even remembers everything, but somewhere in the transformation or whatever this is, he lost all the protective filters and coping mechanisms and ruthless emotional repression of adulthood.

Stiles is kind of fascinated, in a detached way, and he's already composing the texts he's going to send ( **babysitting opportunity, must love dogs** ; **derek tiny & adorable—apocalypse possibly nigh**), has fourteen ideas for how to fix this and a hundred questions all ready to crowd their way out of his mouth when he notices the way Derek's lower lip is stuck out and trembling, and then slow, fat tears are rolling down his cheeks, and some fierce protective instinct wells up inside of Stiles, squeezing his chest and blotting out all the frantic churning of his brain.

"Oh, no, buddy, come on, come here, it's okay." Derek doesn't move, but when Stiles lands on his knees in front of him and holds his arms open, Derek rushes into them. He's stronger than a little kid should be, but probably exactly as strong as a little werewolf should be, and Stiles holds on tight while Derek snuffles into his shirt. They stay that way until Stiles's stomach rumbles, and the sniffling turns into something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

"Are you hungry? I'm hungry, school always makes me hungry." Derek nods, looking solemn and confused—like all the things he knows, all the things he's done are too much to fit into this kid-sized existence—and Stiles thumbs the tears from his cheeks, round and downy soft. He levers himself up, holds out his hand; Derek takes it, and they walk to the kitchen together.

Stiles makes them sandwiches, piles on cold cuts and cheese and pickles and tomatoes, sprinkles on a few Fritos as the final touch before mashing the second slice of bread down on top of everything. These are masterpieces, are what they are. Derek is staring at him in his typical inscrutable way, though, so he says, "A little crunch in your sandwich is not to be missed, my friend," and holds out a chip in Derek's direction. Derek's eyes flash before he takes the Frito with his _teeth_ and nearly takes Stiles's fingers off with it.

"HEY, no biting! Bad wolf!" Derek giggles—giggles!—so hard he nearly falls off his chair, like he thinks it's the most hilarious thing he's ever heard. It's all so surreal, Derek but not-Derek, or at least not any Derek that Stiles has ever known, innocent kid trust taking over now that he feels more comfortable.

"Oh, now you're a funny guy, huh?" Derek grins toothily at him, and Stiles rolls his eyes and shakes his head and can't help grinning back at him. "Eat your sandwich, drink your milk, and maybe you'll grow back up into a big, strong wolf."

They run around in the yard after the sandwiches, play a complicated game of tag that Derek claims to "know" which involves a lot of pouncing and growling (little-kid growls, not scary-wolf growls, so they sound like "rarrrr," and Stiles growls back at him because it makes Derek dissolve into helpless giggles all over again) and rolling around in the grass when they're not chasing each other (and how novel is it to chase and be chased when it's not a matter of life and death?), and Stiles figures the distraction is worth the grass stains.

"Okay," he says when Derek finally starts to wear himself out, flopping on the ground panting and happy next to Stiles, who gave up the fight a good twenty minutes earlier. "I think maybe it's time for all good pups to take a nap."

"'M not tired," Derek insists, then yawns so enormously that Stiles can see his pointy little canines. "Well, I am. Stiles is tired. Plus, there was obviously weird magic stuff, and magic is tiring. I'm exhausted just thinking about it."

Stiles hustles him back inside, thinks about dirt and bugs in his bed and takes a detour to the bathroom so he can wipe down Derek's face with a damp washcloth—he squeezes his eyes shut and wrinkles his nose but lets Stiles do it—and scrub his hands through Derek's mess of black hair to dislodge the worst of the leaves and grass from outside.

Derek hesitates when they're back in Stiles's room, but Stiles just points to the bed, and Derek clambers up on it and curls himself into a compact wolfy ball. If he had a tail, Stiles thinks a little crazily, it'd be tucked all around his little body, his nose buried in the fluffy tip.

He looks tiny and forlorn, and that, that is something Stiles does understand, the scary, helpless feeling that you're too small for the big world and all the big heartache that comes with it—so he makes an executive decision, says, "Slumber party it is!" and launches himself to land on the bed, too.

Derek hmpfs and tucks in close, a warm, sleepy bundle, holds Stiles's t-shirt tight in his fist like he's afraid if he doesn't, Stiles might disappear. Stiles rests his hand on Derek's back, feels his quick, fluttery heartbeat slowing down as he drifts off, and it makes Stiles's own eyelids feel heavy. Before he can think better of it, he leans in and presses a kiss to Derek's forehead, says, "Night, buddy," just like his dad used to do for him, the thing that always made him feel safe and loved. 

Stiles isn't going anywhere, and everything else can wait until they wake up.


End file.
